Practical
by SkyKissed
Summary: He's little more than a Captain without a ship. She's a Queen without a kingdom. They've both learned the importance of being practical and practicality says their best chance of surviving this mess involves working together. On hiatus for canon invoked editing.


A/N: I tried to resist this crack pairing. I really did. But it drew me in with it's potential for snark and...repressed feels and...hotness. Going to take a bit of doing to get used to their characters but...this short little number is my test.

* * *

**Practical**

* * *

After living in a state of limbo for the past twenty eight years the months preceding Emma and Snow's eventual return seem to pass in the blink of an eye. If questioned, Regina couldn't say precisely what happens, what had allowed them to bridge the gap between their worlds; it simply _happens_ and no one sees fit to question that. Certainly not David or Henry and certainly not the town folk. They see only the return of their loved ones, their princess, and the potential to return to their home.

The sentiment means little to her; she sees, instead, the man standing slightly behind the others, his hand resting lightly on his hip as he takes in his new surroundings. There's a dismissive note there to hide the nervousness beneath, a lazy smirk to cover any misgivings. He sticks out almost painfully in the midst of the young women, calloused, world weary and_ dark_ in contrast to their innocence, optimism.

Certainly not trustworthy (though she really has no room to talk).

"Who's _that_?"

Her son's breathed question is what calls her out of her reverie. There's a note of real wonder in Henry's voice, the telltale fascination she's come to recognize over the years. It's the same tone he'd used to describe Mary Margaret's role as Snow White (and, subsequently, her own place as the Evil Queen), the one that says he's indulging fanciful, overly idealistic, notions of faraway lands and adventure. Her hand is on his shoulder, restraining him, before he can take another step forward. It earns her an amused look from the newcomer. Emma, at least, seems appreciative of her caution, "Hook." One word. Regina tightens her grip on her son; David steps between his wife and the other man.

"Can I look forward to such a_ glowing _praise every time you introduce me, Miss Swan?" He shakes his head as if dismissing her presumably uncouth mannerisms. He offers Henry a small bow, "Killian Jones, at your service."

"You're from over there!"

"I am, dear boy. And considering the current state of things, I am most pleased to be visiting your little corner of the world."

The relatively simple statement is all it takes to sober the rest of his group. Snow squeezes her husband's arm, " He's right. We have to talk to the town."

"And we will. Just tell me what happened."

It's strange. No matter how many years she's put between them, no matter the atrocities she's committed one word is able to shatter her carefully steeled poise. Snow stares at her as she speaks, something like pity coloring her expression. She squeezes David's arm again, "Cora."

Regina ignores the irritating concern on their features; she ignores the way her hand instinctively clenches, nails biting at her palm until the already pale skin is an ashy white. David is already going on about some plan of attack, his vitality restored by the return of his family. Hopeless, but inspiring.

When she finally looks up, she finds Hook staring at her, expression caught somewhere between amused and pitying. He arches a brow in silent question, interested in knowing the genesis of her behavior.

She sneers instead, choosing to ignore him and focuses on the task at hand.

* * *

If he's being perfectly honest, he doesn't have a reason to follow her. He's betrayed Cora and is thus no longer bound to fulfill her requests. The prince and princess, however, are being particularly dull and he recognizes that he has no place in this happy family reunion. With a quick wink to Emma, he dismisses himself.

It is not particularly difficult to follow her, the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoing around the building. She looks very much like a scar on this otherwise bright world, the dark of her clothes sticking out like a sore thumb. While flattering, the color looks unnatural on her. It takes little more than a second glance for him to decide she's missed her calling. She's made for more vivid reds or whites, things full of fire, life. A pity and a waste of such a fine figure. The woman walks a ways before taking a seat on one of the benches under an apple tree, glances about herself. There is a very visible distress in her posture, exhaustion.

It's a sort of tension he's particularly familiar with, the kind that indicates a ghost better left buried rising to the forefront. Regina runs a hand through her hair before letting it dangle limply over her knee. It lends her an exhausted air, as if she's just barely held together at the seams. From the displeasure turning her lip he'd be willing to bet it is not a familiar feeling for the Queen. For years she has ruled with absolute authority and now, seemingly out of the blue, she is facing the consequences of actions from years prior. A life she's left behind, forgotten.

It's a thing he can sympathize with, if nothing else.

He does not doubt for a second that she would be a beautiful woman given the correct circumstances. She has elegant lines, full lips, and an inborn grace he's always found appealing. Physically, she is a rather lovely example of her gender.

It's the eyes, he supposes, that ruins her. They are tired, world weary, and colored by an ugly sentiment with which he is too familiar. Those lips seem more fond of sneering than smiling and the voice, while low, sensual, is too frequently colored with disdain. Quite a waste, if he does so say.

He throws her a wicked smile, deliberately stepping on the dead leaves dotting the lawn to call her attention. The exhaustion is seamlessly replaced with a steely, queenly indifference. Hook taps a finger on the arm of her bench, "Would you be looking for some company, lady? I'm afraid if I have to spend another minute with those..." he shakes his head, "_saints_, I will be in danger of losing my mind."

"I doubt my answer will change your mind. Sit."

"Let it never be said you are without manners, Majesty."

That does cause her to pause, regarding him more cautiously, "You know who I am?"

"Are there many other stunningly attractive, dark, women of power roaming your city? If so I do believe I shall enjoy my time here."

Not a precise answer but it seems to pacify her for the time being. Cora had informed him the barest essentials of her personality, admitting she did not know her daughter as well as she'd have hoped. The woman she'd described had been vivacious but malleable, strong but...compliant. Above all else, she'd been good natured, dedicated.

He can say see these traits flitting beneath the surface but they are certainly not what _defines_ her. Cora had misjudged, much as she had with Snow and Emma. It's a remarkably happy mistake.

Such a cautious creature; she crosses a leg, leaning forward rather than back. It's an aggressive stance and he smiles. There have been too many simpering damsels in his life and, if nothing else, he can respect her wickedly dark eyes, defiance. Those lips quirk up in some hollow mimicry of a grin, too toothy and wide to be friendly, "I think it's strange that you know so much when I've been missing for so many years."

"You wound me with your accusations."

" You know more than you're letting on," he shrugs, conceding this with another little smile. He certainly has no reason to keep anything from her. The Queen inclines her head at a haughty angle, glaring down at him, "Do you have a _reason_ for following me?"

"Do you mean to this world? Or to your seat?"

She arches a brow, purses her lips, "Both."

He doesn't wait for her to invite him to sit (potentially because she never would), simply takes the seat next to her. It's too close for propriety but not near enough to touch; just enough to set her on edge, make her uncomfortable. She chooses instead to relax, let's the tension ease out of her figure. It earns her a small chuckle, "The second part of your question is simpler. I wanted to sit and where better to do such a thing than next to a beautiful lady?"

A practiced remark that he's undoubtedly bit off a thousand times. At her dark look he shrugs, conceding this, "As to the first," he inclines his head to the side, "Cora sent me." She chooses to ignore the ancient rush of panic that immediately washes over her at the mention of her mother. They are the weaknesses of a different, younger, woman and have no place here now. If he notices her momentary lapse, he does not say, "She sends her regards, by the by."

Regina throws him an arch look, never turning entirely to take him in. It would be too great a concession, play too heavily into the image he's created for himself. The narcissistic, dashing, rogue with a heart of gold hidden beneath it all. It's a pretty lie but she's seen enough of the world to recognize it as little more than that; she knows from experience that innocence and nobility are simple things to mimic. So she stares forward instead, watching the leaves of her apple tree drift towards the ground, "How noble of you to keep me informed."

"Nobility has precious little to do with it, your majesty. I've never been much of a fan. Practicality on the other hand, " he leans back easily, reclining with an indolent grace that is more manufactured than innate, "Is something of a necessity in my line of work."

"And what line of work would that be?"

The twinkle in his eyes flashes a little more brighter, smile widening, "The uninformed and less imaginative would call me a pirate, dear lady." The woman hums.

"A _pirate_?"

He frowns, "Hmm, fancy that. It's still an ugly term regardless of how beautiful the one who utters it may be." The compliment, he notes with some fascination, has no effect on her. If anything, there's a flicker of annoyance playing briefly over her features. The queen adjusts to look at him properly for the first time, her tone dismissive, regal.

"A captain without a ship..." she snickers, letting the sentence trail off.

He matches her tone, "Of course. Well suited for a queen without a kingdom. Or any _real _power to speak of."

Regina smirks, remarkably well pleased despite the insult (far more effective than his earlier compliment). She accepts his presence, flicks her attention back to the leaves whipping about in the autumn wind. Dismisses him.

Hook chuckles, leaning back. What could arguably be described as a companionable silence passes between them. As before, it is he who breaks it (concedes).

"I'm told you had a rather intimate relationship with Rumpelstiltskin."

She scoffs at the abrupt change in their conversation, the snort oddly in keeping with her personality, "How tactful."

He smiles, shrugging, "Tit for tat, Majesty. We both find ourselves in need of information. You deliver me the crocodile and I'll be certain dear Cora stays well away from your lovely person." A bold claim considering he can hardly put weight behind him. She knows just as much. There is no reason to put faith in him.

"You can't think I'll trust you to keep your end of the bargain?"

"Not if you're half as clever as these people seem to think. But," he flashes her his most winning grin, knowing it will do little more than set her on edge, "That's the beauty of this. _I _know better than to trust _you _as well."

"Practical."

That, he supposes, is the word most applicable to both of them. Hook extends his good hand to her, his expression never wavering. Practicality says she will accept; survival has been key throughout their life (and neither trusts or is trustworthy to start with; there is thus no great loss, no danger). Regina meets her mother's (ex)pawn's gaze, tilts her head to the side as if searching for something. A deeper meaner perhaps or his motivation. There is nothing beneath the shallow exterior he presents.

It isn't practical to know such things.

The Queen accepts his hand, squeezing, and he feels the familiar pulse of magic licking over his skin. Different from Cora's or the imps, distinctly her, like liquid heat coiling in every one of her nerves. She sneers instead of smiles (something flashing in her too dark eyes), a wicked edge tinging her expression, "What did you want to know, Captain?"

He does not miss the way her tone shifts over his title, drawing it out, more than a little taunting. He squeezes back, all teeth and easy charm.

"Start at the beginning, _Majesty_."


End file.
